


Formal Diagnosis.

by sherlockholmeslives



Series: Welcome to London (One-Shots) [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:41:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmeslives/pseuds/sherlockholmeslives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes in twelve years old. He is smarter than his peers, ‘troubled’ at school, and skinny as a rake.</p>
<p>He sits in the poorly stuffed chair in the psychiatrist’s office, glaring at the floor. Mother sits beside him, her chair pointedly distanced from his. Her hands tremble imperceptibly (imperceptible to most; Sherlock sees is easily as he sees the colour of her hair, the creases around her eyes, the small but persistent muscular tic at the side of her mouth which screams I am trying not to cry) as she holds the formal diagnosis between her fingers, the words imprinted on her mind already.</p>
<p>Sherlock Holmes is a sociopath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Formal Diagnosis.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in reverse chronological order.

Sherlock Holmes in twelve years old. He is smarter than his peers, ‘troubled’ at school, and skinny as a rake.

He sits in the poorly stuffed chair in the psychiatrist’s office, glaring at the floor. Mother sits beside him, her chair pointedly distanced from his. Her hands tremble imperceptibly _(imperceptible to most; Sherlock sees is easily as he sees the colour of her hair, the creases around her eyes, the small but persistent muscular tic at the side of her mouth which screams **I am trying not to cry** )_ as she holds the formal diagnosis between her fingers, the words imprinted on her mind already.

Sherlock Holmes is a sociopath.

(He thinks that is wrong, but says nothing. He is only twelve years old, and his mother is so much wiser; she believes it, and thus, so will he.)

***

“Tell me what you did to the cat, Sherlock.”

The psychiatrist is an old man, short white-grey hair and a tailored suit. Sherlock knows his wife died last year, and that he charges Mother almost 20% more than his other clients because he knows she has the money. Sherlock gets lost for a while staring at the man’s shirt collar, trying to identify the small stain he can see there. Too red to be coffee, too brown to be wine. He files the colour away in his mind, catalogues it; he will label it later.

“Sherlock,” the psychiatrist says again, more firmly. “Tell me about the cat.”

Sherlock looks up to him from his chair _(intentionally lower than his, basic intimidation, boring)_ , uninterested but innocent. He does not understand why everyone cares so much about the cat now that it’s dead; they didn’t like it when it was alive.

“I wanted to see how it worked,” he says eventually, sounding somehow both older and younger than his years simultaneously. “I’ve seen pictures in Father’s library, and I wanted to compare it. So I did an autopsy.”

The psychiatrist ( _Dr Michaels_ , he hears Mother’s voice reminding him in his head) nods slowly, writing notes.

“Do you worry about the pain the cat felt?” Dr Michaels asks, and Mother’s breath catches in her throat as she waits for an answer.

“I made sure it was _dead_ before I autopsied it,” he said incredulously. _Did they really th_ _ink he’s that stupid? Dead things don’t feel -pain-._

Dr Michaels simply nods again, writing something down; Mother does not relax.

“Did it bother you that the cat died?”

Sherlock thinks about his answer for a moment, and then recites something Father had said when _Grandpère_ died. “All living things die.”

(He continues the quote in his head; _‘All living things die, Sherlock; you must grasp all of life that you can **while** you can.’)_

As he sees Mother’s features crumble, he wonders whether he should have said more out loud.

***

Sherlock doesn’t move as he hears the door to his bedroom open, unconcerned by Mycroft entering the room; he is too entranced right now. His desk lamp is switched on, bathing his table in bright yellow light. All his books and experiments are on a pile in the corner of the room, his whole dedicated to his newest project; Tiggle, the Majors’ cat, whom he’d found in the back garden two hours ago. Sherlock’s set-up is primitive, but he’s in the body cavity regardless, carefully separating internal organs with fine metal instruments borrowed from his father’s study. Tiggle’s insides aren’t as neat as the medical diagrams, but he’s so _pleased_ because he can still identify everything, even though he needs to sop up dark, dark blood with endless tissues, a small pile of them near his feet, staining the carpet.

He is contemplating how to get in to the brain as Mycroft approaches. He glances up, anticipating a wide smile on his brother’s face -  another scientific avenue conquered by the youngest Holmes. 

Sherlock was not expecting the pale-faced shock, or the sudden return of Mycroft’s stutter. He cocks his head, questioning, then narrows his eyes as Mycroft takes _so long_ to say anything.

“Sh- Sherlock… _what have you done?_ ”

***

Sherlock Holmes is twelve years old. He is endlessly curious, socially inept, but emotionally stable. 

He is walking in the back garden of his home in the late afternoon, when he finds, quite by chance, the corpse of their next door neighbour’s cat. 

_  
_

_No obvious signs of trauma,_ he thinks. _I wonder why it died?_


End file.
